27
by ArthurDent2
Summary: An additional chapter to the ending of Catcher in the Rye. 'I know I sound like a madman. I mean sometimes I am- I swear I am- but not really.'


**A/N: Hello! Here is an extra chapter to ****The Catcher in the Rye****, not that it really needs it, I love the ending, but, I won't lie, it was an English assignment. Even so, I still love the book, and I like my additional work enough to put on here. Also, I've been a horrible, horrible person, and I haven't posted in ages, so here is something to make up for it. **

**Enjoy :)**

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_Chapter 27_

I know I sound like a madman. I mean sometimes I am- I swear I am- but not really. I mean I'm not _act_ually nuts. D.B. might think so, and those goddamn psychoanalysis guys think so, even if they don't really say it. They just sort of mean it, without saying it, but you know exactly what they mean. Like when we have sessions- the ones where they make me lie down on some plush red couch, and tell me to talk about my feelings, just listening and writing things down, and then start shooting the bull about how nuts I am. They're all the same, but it works, I guess, in a way, just talking to them. I swear I'm not nuts like that, though, like really nuts- I swear I'm not.

That's not the point though; I just want to tell you about what happened a few days ago. I was visiting Phoebe in New York and all, back from this school, Hemplings School for Boys, out near Hollywood, so I wasn't far from D.B. It isn't too bad, the school I mean. Better than Pencey Prep. Almost _any_ school is better than old Pencey, though. 'Course, it's still full of phonies and jerks, but it isn't crappy. It's got loads more tolerable guys too, and the headmaster is okay and all, not like old Thurmer. He's called Mr. Lampton, not _Dr_. for god's sakes, and he's got this little boy- not old enough for the school, only around eleven, but he sometimes shows up to see his dad and all. He reminds me of Allie. He's got red hair too. I like Mr. Lampton all right. He doesn't go around checking the classes all concerned when parents were around, like he did it all the time or ask you to 'join' him in his office, like you were goddamn friends or something. He didn't do stuff like that, phony stuff. He's all right.

Anyway, I was visiting Phoebe in New York, only for a week, and one day she wanted to go to Central Park. She didn't want to go ice-skating or anything, she just liked to go to the park. We sat down on this bench, all new and still smelling like paint, and just talked, looking over the pond.

The ducks were back- it was springtime, that's when the ducks would always come back. Then, I had an idea. Phoebe was smart, maybe she would know.

"Hey, Weatherfield, do you know where the ducks go?"

She looked at me, all confused. "What do you mean?"

"You know, in winter when the pond freezes over. Where do the ducks go? I mean they don't grow gills or anything for god's sakes, so were do they go?"

"I don't know," she shrugged and went back to talking. I was kind of disappointed that she didn't know, but I guess it doesn't really matter, I mean, as long as they don't get trapped under the ice or anything.

Then something else happened, those nuns, the ones from the café that I talked about literature to, I saw them. I wasn't sure it was them, but I was pretty sure. They were walking with some kids, probably for a school trip or something- they said they were going to be teachers and all. Phoebe didn't have school because she went to the one uptown, and they had a few days off, but the other ones didn't, so I figured it was that class that they talked about last time I saw them. They didn't see me, I don't even know if they would have recognized me. I kind of wanted to say hi, or go up to them, or something, but I couldn't do it, I just couldn't. I don't know why.

Phoebe and me stayed that way for a while, just sitting and talking. She told me more about school, and the boy who wouldn't leave her alone, and about the new adventures of Hazel Weatherfield, kid detective. It was nice.

I watched a few kids play; they looked around Phoebe's age. That's when I realised that she was watching them too. Kids from her school, must've been. She didn't say anything, just stayed quiet, suddenly. I nudged her on the arm.

"Go ahead," I said all nicely.

She looked at me, "You sure? I mean, I don't have to, I could just stay here with-"

"Certainly, I'm sure. Really, it's fine. Go." I waved her off, and she excitedly bounded to her friends. They saw her, and they got all excited too, like she was the goddamn _pres_ident or something. You should have seen them. They played pirates- I nearly fell over laughing when old Phoebe called for a mutiny. She's funny that way.

I just sort of watched them, playing. Not creepy or anything, it just made me feel, I don't know, kind of _good_, like not so bad anymore, watching old Phoebe playing: on the swings, down the slide, on the seesaw.

Then, I don't know why, but I just sort of started singing under my breath, to myself, like almost humming, I was doing it so goddamn quietly.

"If a body catch a body coming through the rye."


End file.
